


Pushed You Down Deep (Bring On the Wonder)

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: South Park
Genre: Friendship, Gen, High School, In Denial, Love, M/M, Repressed Emotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Craig categorically refuses to confirm or deny that he feels his friends slipping away from him as graduation approaches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pushed You Down Deep (Bring On the Wonder)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Susan Enan's "Bring on the Wonder."

"Hey."

Even though Craig doesn't look up, Clyde keeps going like he assumes Craig has heard him. "Can I talk to you?"

Craig spares him a glance. "You're talking now, aren't you?" he says between bites of the sandwich—turkey, as in breast not processed slices, and goat cheese on something that turns its nose up at being called mere bread—that Token just traded him for a significantly lower class peanut butter and jelly on white. The sandwiches Token's mom makes are insanely good and, although he always pretends he's the one doing Token the favor when the occasional desire for "regular people food" strikes, Craig actually really looks forward to their trades. He takes another bite, savoring whatever the spread is that has seeped into the focaccia without saturating it sloppy. He's aware that Clyde has stopped talking and is just standing there watching him eat. Well, that's Clyde's choice and it doesn't have anything to do with Craig, just like every other choice Clyde has made lately.

Clyde keeps standing there, not saying anything. Craig doesn't know what Clyde wants from him but he's not going to ask, because that would imply he cares. He wouldn't want to give Clyde that impression, so he doesn't say anything either as he continues eating the sandwich, even when it loses its flavor and starts to feel dry and thick in his mouth.

After he's choked down as much as he can, Craig stands up and tosses the brown paper bag at the trash can next to the bleachers; the untouched orange inside gives it the weight to arc easily through the air and drop in with an audible thud. "See you later," he says to everyone, not looking at anyone specifically as he takes off.

He's only gone a few steps before he realizes Clyde is following him. Craig isn't walking that fast and Clyde, who has a longer stride, could catch up easily if he wanted to. It's totally up to Clyde, so Craig doesn't slow down.

It takes a while for Clyde to decide to catch up, which is funny to Craig because lately Clyde has been making snap decisions all over the place, but whatever, this is Clyde, and Craig has given up trying to figure him out.

When Clyde makes the decision to catch up to Craig, it only takes him a couple of long, quick steps and they're walking side-by-side.

They walk in silence, until Clyde says, "So can I talk to you?"

"You're talking now," Craig says once more.

"Well, can you listen to me?"

Craig doesn't bother pointing out that he's obviously listening, since he's given a response appropriate to Clyde's first question.

"Craig." Clyde uses his longer legs to get in front of Craig and come to a stop, blocking his path. Craig could go around him, but he doesn't feel like changing his trajectory just because of where Clyde does or doesn't choose to stand, so he stops, too.

They stand there looking at each other. Clyde is the one who's apparently dying to talk, so Craig waits for him to say something.

Finally, Clyde says, "What did I do?"

Craig's jaw sets the line of his mouth more firmly. Clyde knows goddamn well what he did. Asking that is an insult to both of them; Craig isn't going to exacerbate it by answering.

"If I did something wrong, can you please just tell me what it was?" The furrow of Clyde's brow deepens as he looks at Craig. Craig keeps his face smooth. He keeps it so smooth, Clyde's gaze slides right off and he winds up looking at the ground. "I know you're mad at me."

"What do you want, Clyde?" Craig says, because Clyde is standing there like he thinks they're still having this conversation.

"I want to hang out with you before I go." Clyde looks up. The furrow is gone, but Craig thinks he's see the threat of it hiding behind Clyde's eyes. "I only have three more weeks, you know?"

Nineteen days, actually, but Craig doesn't correct him. He shrugs.

"Is that—" Clyde breaks off, chews the inside of his lip. "Is that why you're mad?" he asks, his stupid cow eyes wide and his voice soft and hesitant, as if it's only just occurred to him and he's exploring the possibility for the first time, as if he _really didn't know_. "It is, isn't it?"

Craig categorically refuses to confirm or deny.

"Kenny enlisted, too," Clyde says, "and those guys aren't mad at him."

"Those guys are douchebags," Craig says flatly.

"No, they aren't," Clyde says, and it's possible he's going to say more, maybe an anecdote that's meant to demonstrate to Craig what actually _awesome_ guys Cartman, Stan, and Kyle are, but Craig has no interest in hearing about the glory days of the South Park superhero league or whatever, so before any more words can come out of Clyde's mouth, Craig says:

"Then why don't you go hang around them."

If Craig thinks that will shut Clyde up, he's proven right for all of two seconds before Clyde says, "I don't want to hang out with them. I want to hang out with you."

They find themselves looking at each other in silence again. Craig kind of despises himself for how badly he wants Clyde's words to be true. The longer they stand there like this, the more thoroughly Craig is filled with both the longing and the loathing.

Finally he says, "Then why are you going?"

"My country needs me," Clyde says, as if it's as easy as that.

Craig hates the way he says it, like he means it, like he _believes_ it. It's bullshit, but Craig doesn't know how to get it through Clyde's thick head that while America may need soldiers, it doesn't need _him_ , not Clyde specifically; America and her military won't appreciate Clyde and all the things that make him Clyde—they'll try to change him, strip him of his Clydeness, they'll make fun of his crying until he thinks he can't do that anymore; America's military won't value Clyde's tears the way they deserve, the way—the way that anyone who knows him, _really_ knows him, values them.

But Clyde joined up with the U.S. Army and Craig didn't see that coming, so maybe he doesn't know Clyde after all.

Craig looks at Clyde looking at him, so stupidly sincere, and if Craig were to say anything right now, it would be "fuck you," so he doesn't say anything.

But he does flip Clyde off, turn around, and walk away.

That should be that...except Clyde starts trailing after him again. Craig has never had a problem with Clyde following him around before, but right now, for Clyde to choose _this_ moment to try following him—

Craig stops. He turns to face Clyde. "What do you want? You talked, I listened—so what the fuck more do you want?"

For a second, Craig thinks that Clyde might cry. But he doesn't. His jaw clenches, like he thinks he's fucking _stoic_ or something. Which is so far from Clyde that Craig briefly entertains the notion that Clyde has been bodysnatched, which would actually make this all make sense. If that's what has happened, then this isn't Clyde anymore, so there's no point in Craig trying to have a conversation with him or even in standing here.

So he goes.

This time no one follows him.

 

Craig is at his locker when someone leans next to it. "Hey, man."

"Hey," Craig says, not looking at Token as he tugs his copy of _Catcher in the Rye_ out from under his other textbooks. This isn't the first time he's been assigned to read Salinger and he still doesn't find it shocking, but he doesn't have the disdain for Holden Caulfield that he did in 4th grade.

"We're all hanging out at my house tonight. You in?"

Craig tucks _Catcher_ under his arm as he holds back the swaying stack of books on the locker's top shelf, snatching his hand away at the last second as he slams the metal door shut against the impending avalanche. "Who's 'we'?"

"Nothing big," Token says as they start down the hall, "just us."

Craig shrugs. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Token give him a look; Craig lets it bounce off him.

"Come on, what else are you doing tonight?" Token says, as if it isn't really a question. If Craig doesn't agree to this, the look Token is now giving him says, Token and the rest of the "us" will just show up at Craig's house.

As Craig knows from past experience, this is no idle threat. "Fine," he says, even though it isn't; it's just better than the alternative.

Token grins and it's all Craig can do not to flip him off. Then he rethinks and flips Token off anyhow. He turns away, but not before he sees Token grin more.

 

Because he knows they're expecting him to be last, late, Craig makes sure to be the first to arrive at Token's. He even gets there before Token, who finds Craig sitting on the front steps, already into the Kahlúa he brought for Tweek's benefit.

"How can you drink that stuff straight?" As Token comes up the walk, a box of wine tucked under one arm, unknown but almost certainly alcoholic beverages concealed in the bags dangling from his hand, he nods at the bottle Craig is drinking from.

Token asks that every time. As he gets to his feet, Craig gives him the same answer as always, which is a shrug and another swig. Even mixed with something else, Kahlúa is just as disgusting as Token thinks it is, but Tweek has a hard-on for it, so.

He keeps the Kahlúa but relinquishes the Bombay Dry to Token, who starts setting up the bar while Craig sprawls out on the sofa, idly clicking through the 436 satellite television channels, no exaggeration, that the Blacks get.

"Here, put this on."

Craig looks up in time to see Token tossing him a rented DVD box, which he catches reflexively and turns over out of curiosity. "No," he says when he reads the title. He drops it to the floor, kicks it across the room as far as he can.

"Clyde wants to see it. He asked me to pick it up."

"Clyde can go fuck himself," Craig says, because no way is he going to sit here and watch _Stand By Me_. First of all, the blueberry pie scene makes Tweek gag like crazy and if he's been drinking, which is what it looks like they're all going to be doing tonight judging by the bar Token has going, he'll puke. Second of all, and more importantly, no. Just no.

Of course Clyde walks in right then. He's standing in the doorway and Craig knows he heard, but Clyde only grins his stupid grin and says, "Hey, what's up?"

Token says hey back and then Clyde probably says something else, but Craig isn't listening because he's already lost interest in this conversation. He pumps up the volume on an abominable song from the 80s that he doesn't know the name of, but which happens to be playing on the station he's stopped on and which, in any case, can't be much worse than anything else.

Craig stays sprawled out across the sofa, so Clyde sits in one of the lounge chairs and Token takes the other. Craig's intention is to sit up when Tweek gets there, but he doesn't move fast enough and when Tweek does arrive, he winds up on the floor by the chair Clyde is sitting in. Craig's fingers tighten around the Kahlúa as he lifts the bottle to his lips; if that's how they want it, fine with him.

They're quiet as they sit and drink, the only sound the insipid tunes coming from the TV, periodically interrupted by equally banal commercials. Craig steals a glance to see if this is really what Token had in mind for tonight; Token looks like everything is, for lack of a better term, groovy. That cat is too fucking cool for his own good sometimes.

Craig's attention snaps back to the television when an Army recruitment ad comes on. Before he can throw the Kahlúa bottle through the TV, Tweek is saying, "That's you, huh?" and everyone is looking at Clyde.

"I guess so, yeah." Clyde looks away from the TV, smiling his very stupid fucking smile at Tweek, who has twisted around to look up at Clyde, his hand resting on Clyde's knee. "Or it will be, if I can make it through basic."

"You'll make it," Token says. Clyde grins like he's swallowed the confidence Token is expressing in him, and it tastes fucking delicious.

Craig tips the Kahlúa bottle up again. It doesn't taste like confidence to him, but he drinks it anyhow.

"I think you'll make it, too, man," Tweek says. "But—but, ah!, um—I don't want you to." He makes a wordless sound and then says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

Craig thinks it's the only non-useless thing anyone has said all evening, but whatever, this is Tweek's conversation, not his.

"It's okay," Clyde says, and Craig doesn't have to look to know Clyde is smiling his fucktarded smile at Tweek, like it really is okay, like it's something to be fucking _happy_ about.

"But what if something happens to you over there?" Tweek is getting himself worked up now, clearly imagining the worst, approaching the kind of anxiety levels he displayed when they were kids. Craig guesses he started drinking caffeinated beverages as soon as Token told him about tonight, so he could stay up with all of them; and he's probably been trying to show off since he got here, drinking kamikazes with Clyde and Token even though he has a similar emotional allergy to vodka as to caffeine. "Oh god," Tweek moans, "what if you don't come back?"

"I'll come back," Clyde says. He's focused so intently on Tweek that he doesn't notice Craig looking at him again. "I promise."

"You can't promise that!" Tweek's agitation is bordering on desperation. "You don't know, man. You don't know what will happen. And if you—" More inarticulate sounds wrestle with words in his throat before he squeezes out the words, almost choking with the effort: "If you get killed, you won't come back like Kenny does. If you die—oh jesus, Clyde! If you die, you'll be gone forever!"

"Hey, hey, come on." Hushing him, Clyde pulls Tweek up onto his lap and lets Tweek burrow into his arms.

Feeling more than done with their little drama play, Craig twists himself back, sinking down into the sofa.

He can't shut out the sounds they're making, though, so he hears it when Tweek says, "I don't want you to die...", the rest of the sentence muffled, probably against Clyde's military-worthy chest.

"I'm not going to die over there," Clyde says patiently.

"No," Tweek says, shaky but clear, too loud, like he's past the point of being able to modulate his own voice. "I don't want you to die a virgin."

"For fuck's sake!" Craig says, unable to stop himself. He yanks the throw pillow from beneath his head and, instead of putting it to the use it's named for, presses it to his own face, pushing the edges down over his ears, shutting out the look Token has shot him, doing his damnedest to shut out all the words spilling out of Tweek and Clyde.

He stays like that as long as he can. When the need to breathe can't be ignored, he loosens his grip just enough to let in a thin rush of air, but stays under himself. It's possible he passes out for a while, but he can't be sure because everything is blank and dark either way.

When he finally surfaces, pushing the pillow back until it goes over the side of the armrest, Clyde and Tweek have stopped talking. Token looks over at the movement, then turns his attention back to the TV. "I can put on something else if you want."

Craig follows his gaze and finds Joaquin Phoenix's brother walking along some railroad tracks with the kid from _Next Generation_ , one of the Coreys, and Jerry O'Connell, whose career has been so boring ever since this movie that Craig has no option but to remember him by name. "I don't care," he says. "Clyde wants to watch it, so it's fine." He can't tell whether or not he's being sarcastic.

"Yeah, well, Clyde's not here at the moment," Token says. "So this is your chance, if you really don't want to watch it."

Craig cranes his neck to look at Clyde's chair, which is empty of both him and Tweek. Craig slumps down again, figuring Clyde has taken Tweek off to continue his meltdown more privately, or maybe to help the kid puke up some of that vodka he shouldn't have been drinking in the first place.

Wherever they've gone, they stay gone for a long time. So long that eventually Craig says aloud, "What the fuck are they doing?"

Token arches an eyebrow at him. "Tweek doesn't want Clyde to die a virgin?"

"Bullshit," Craig says. They've been gone for long enough that they could, theoretically, be fucking, but Craig doesn't believe they are.

Not until they come back into the room a while later, both of them a pretty mess, shameless (Clyde) and oblivious (Tweek) about it. When they languidly curl up together in the chair, Craig gets up without a word.

He doesn't look back as he leaves.

He makes it to the front door, even turns the knob and gets the door open. But he's not ready for it, the world outside them. It's coming soon, faster than he would like, and Craig may be an asshole, but not a big enough one to try to make that world get here sooner than it needs to, no matter how he's feeling about the others at the moment.

So he closes the door and cuts through the dining room, where he pauses long enough to lift a bottle from the wine rack, before heading out back.

The tire swing Token's dad put up for them when they were nine is still there. Mr. Black restrings it at the beginning of every summer, even though Token has told him over and over that he doesn't have to do that, they're too big for it now. Mr. Black just smiles and says he's doing it for the kids in South Park who still like to play on swings, and even though he never says he knows his son and his son's friends are those kids when they're drunk, Craig is pretty sure he knows.

He zips the wine bottle into his jacket to free his hands, but even using both hands he can't seem to master the tire tonight. He's got one foot through when he gives up and sits down, leaving the one foot where it is. He retrieves the wine bottle but can't seem to work the corkscrew on his pocket knife, and eventually gives up on that, too. He lies back on the ground, letting the bottle roll a few inches from his open hand.

The ground in Token's backyard is pretty comfortable, so Craig stays like that even when he hears the back porch door open. He listens to the footfalls coming across the grass, hears enough to know it's only one of them; knows who it is.

Craig opens his eyes when Clyde's feet come to a stop by his head. Clyde sits on the ground next to him, not saying a word, and it's the best conversation they've had for a month.

After a while, Clyde leans across him and picks up the wine bottle. Craig watches him open it, his fingers so steady that Craig has to wonder if Clyde is drunk at all. He shakes his head when Clyde offers him the bottle; Clyde puts it down, open and still full.

Craig looks up at the stars, at all the space between them. "Hey," he says, looking at the space, "did you really do it? You and Tweek." He turns to look at Clyde, who meets his gaze. "Did you guys really fuck?"

Clyde nods.

Craig turns his face back up to the stars. "I hope you were gentle with him, man. It was his first time."

"No," Clyde says. "Uh, I mean, yeah, it was gentle—but I didn't fuck him. He wants you to be his first for that. And I've always wanted to be with you the first time someone lets me fuck them, so. I guess it worked out pretty well." In Craig's peripheral vision, Clyde shrugs and flashes a self-deprecatory half-grin.

Craig stares into the depths of the night sky's space, and the stars shine all the more brightly at the edge of his gaze.

Then he hears himself say, "Would it have made a difference, if I'd done it?" He drags his foot out of the swing as he sits up and looks at Clyde. "Would you guys have stayed with me, if I'd fucked him and let you fuck me?"

Clyde looks like he's going to cry.

And then he does cry.

"Sorry," he says, wiping his eyes with the back of his fingers.

Craig takes Clyde's hand away from his face. "Don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry for these." He touches a newly-spilled teardrop as lightly as he can, but it smudges between his fingertip and Clyde's cheek anyhow. He brushes the next one deliberately, and kisses the one after that when Clyde closes his eyes. "What am I going to do with you?" Craig whispers against his skin.

But he's not going to do anything with Clyde, because in nineteen days—or maybe it's only eighteen days now; Craig isn't sure if they've crossed midnight yet. In less than three weeks, anyhow, Clyde isn't going to be his anymore.

It had been bad enough when Tweek told them he would be attending a small liberal arts school on the east coast, one that used to be an all-women's college. The announcement had blindsided Craig, but then again Tweek has always been the most unpredictable one in their group. Definitely more unpredictable than Token; Craig had always known Token was going to split off from them, which got confirmed a week after Tweek's announcement when Token invited them over to celebrate his acceptance to Cornell.

At least Craig still had Clyde. Dependable, predictable, solid Clyde. They were going to be roommates at Boulder.

And then Clyde had gone and joined the fucking army.

Craig sits back. He wants to look at Clyde but he can't. "What am I going to do without you?"

"You're going to do fine, man," Clyde says. "Better than that: you're going to be awesome, like always, and people are going to fucking flock to you like they always have."

Craig stares at him now. He knew Clyde was stupid, but not _this_ stupid. "You know I'm the worst person in South Park, don't you?" He's still looking at Clyde hard and he sees Clyde gathering to say something, so he pushes on quickly before he loses his nerve: "Token only hangs out with me because of you guys, you and Tweek. You." He shrugs, looks down, watches his fingers toying with his shoelace. "I don't know why you like me. I kept thinking you'd figure it out one day, that you can do so much better than me—and I guess you finally did."

"And you call these guys idiots."

Craig looks up, wondering when Token, and Tweek next to him, got here.

"Clyde and Tweek liked you, _as a person_ ," Token says, with painstaking emphasis, "even before they fell in love with you." He settles himself next to Craig, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "And I don't have to be in love with you to love you, man."

"If you all love me so much, why are you leaving me?" Craig hates the plaintiveness he hears in his own voice and chews the inside of his mouth in retaliation.

"We're not leaving you, man," Tweek says, folding himself on the ground cross-legged. "Do you really think something like distance could keep us apart?"

It's the kind of nonsense that can be expected from Tweek—but when Craig looks at the others, he sees they believe it, too.

He lies back again and looks at the stars, at the space between them; the space they share.

They lie down with him, their heads all together in the middle; Craig doesn't have to look at them to know they're looking up into space, too.

He wants to spend the summer fucking Tweek, wants to spend it hanging out with Token's arm slung casually around his shoulders. He wants to spend the next eighteen days with Clyde's cock deep inside him.

And he wants to lie in the grass with them, gazing up at the stars; yeah, Craig wants all the brilliant space surrounding them. He wants, more than anything, _this_.


End file.
